


Pride and Prejudice and Amphibians

by neyvenger (jjjat3am), redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Pride and Prejudice References, hinted Redville, the ghost of Sir Alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a scouser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride and Prejudice and Amphibians

**Author's Note:**

> "Hey what about Carraville as Pride and Prejudice?" "Haha, that's a stupid idea, let's accidentally write a whole fic." - your dumbass writers, at some point
> 
> A cookie will be personally delivered by Phil Neville for every Jane Austen quote you spot.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Not you Carra, I told you to stop googling yourself.

 

“I have not the pleasure of understanding you and your shit taste in clubs,” said Mister Carragher to Mister Neville, adopting a most rakish countenance in the face of the other man’s fuming.

 

The nearby onlookers whispered among themselves, worried. Mister Neville’s face turned an unattractive shade of puce as his gloved hands curled into fists at his sides.

 

“From the very beginning— from the first moment, I may almost say— of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever run a Monday evening television programme with,” spat Mister Neville, before whirling around in fury from the astonished Mister Carragher.

 

“What’s a television?” asked the younger Neville, adopting an expression of honest confusion.

 

“Shut up, Phil,” said Mister Neville, storming from the clearing.

  


 

*

  


 

“Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied," said Lord Van Gaal to Mister Giggs, who was pretending most ardently to listen, while in reality observing a group of fluffy sheep grazing on the fresh grass on the field below.

 

 

*

 

 

“I am excessively diverted by how much of a wanker you are,” said Mister Carragher and Mister Neville felt a curious sort of satisfaction at the sneer on his features, preening at the tone of almost admiration that laced the words.

 

 

*

 

 

"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it. Even if you had washed it a hundred times over in the sweetest-smelling soap, which I still think you ought to do, because give it any longer and it might be too late to salvage."

 

 

*

 

 

The three of them watched, mouths agape, as a dripping wet Scouser emerged from the depths of the lake, covered in wretched greenery far from befitting a gentleman, as well as a translucent white shirt that left rather little to the imagination.

 

Paul glanced sideways at Gary, who seemed to have affixed his entire attention to the phenomenon before him. The man had never looked more deep in concentration and - dare he think it - fascination, Frowning, Paul questioned, "Gary, pray, why are you staring so fondly at that dripping wet scouser?"

 

It seemed like Mister Neville was completely and utterly incapable of forming a coherent reply, so enraptured was he by the well-sculpted body of his most ardently hated rival.

 

"Gary." Paul shook his head in disbelief, scarcely able to believe the truths that were being laid out before his eyes. "Are you listening to me?"

 

There had been graveyards less quiet than the man before him.

 

"Gary. Might I take silence as consent for helping myself to your vast collection of breakfast items?"

 

Mister Neville looked like he might have tried to make a sound, but his mouth merely fell open a little wider, and one suspected a modicum of drool forming at the corner of his mouth. Paul smiled.

 

"Excellent. Come on, Philip."

 

 

*

 

 

“For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn because they're Arsenal fans?” said Mister Neville to Mister Carragher, and they shared a chuckle most warm in the comfort of shared banter.

 

“Count Wenger’s new petticoat was truly ghastly long at last month’s dance,” said Mister Carragher with a snigger, “and I question his choice in young friends. Herr Özil may be good with assisting, but is he the leader they need to win the humorous dance at this year’s Premier Ball?”

 

“I fear Herr Özil is assisting Mister Flamini with much more than the Premier Ball,” remarked Mister Neville, who’d been engaging quite fondly with his strongly smelling waist flask and was flushing quite heavily.

 

“Why, Mister Neville,” murmured Mister Carragher in what he believed was a suitably rakish tone, “I never knew you were interested in rumors like that.”

 

“You never asked,” Mister Neville said, crossing the remaining few feet between them, reaching out to (very boldly!) press a kiss to Mister Carragher’s knuckles.

 

 

*

 

 

“You must learn some of my philosophy, James!"

 

"Not if it's anything like Van Gaal's, I won’t."

 

“No! I despise Lord Van Gaal and all that he represents, and what he has made of my club most beloved,” said Mister Neville, a trace of honest desperation in his voice. Despite himself, Mister Carragher was moved.

 

“I think your club is the single most awful, most foul establishment I’ve ever laid my eyes upon, but-” he raised a hand when it seemed as if Mister Neville were ripe to interrupt, “...but, despite your frankly atrocious disposition, your manners, and your selfish disdain of others, I find myself very fond of you, Mister Neville. And if in this fondness I must also find it in myself to at least tolerate this den of iniquity you call home, then I shall do so only with the barest amount of complaint.”

 

“Romance is a foreign concept to you, isn’t it , James?” said Mister Neville, but his dry tone was betrayed by the warm way he clasped Mister Carragher’s hand.

 

 

*

 

 

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

 

"Do you even know what that word means?"

 

“Gary, stop ruining the mood and kiss me.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can,” said Mister Giggs dismissively, sipping daintily on his cup of tea.

 

Phil wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

 

“I agree Giggsy, Lord Van Gaal is a really shit manager,” said young Phil Neville, before swallowing a whole cupcake in one big bite.

 

 

*

 

 

“It's been many years since I had such an exemplary vegetable,” said Gary, trying, in vain, to lighten the oppressively awkward atmosphere.

 

“...are we talking about Carra’s dick already?” asked Earl Gerrard, seemingly unbothered with the notion. Gary tried to remind himself that the Earl had spent a few years abroad, in the newly  united states, and that notions of propriety were different there.

 

Meanwhile, young Phil sent furtive glances towards Mister Redknapp, admiring the green color of his well-tailored jacket. Mister Redknapp pretended most kindly not to notice, and tried, most fervently, to disguise his own interested gaze.

 

Mister Carragher buried his head in his hands and groaned.

 

 

*

 

 

“You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

 

“I’m sorry, Jamie, could I ask you to repeat that, your accent seems to have thickened in my absence.”

 

“You just want to hear it again, you insolent worm.”

 

“Ah, already with the pet names. You must have really missed me.”

 

“Don’t distract me, I beg of you. Your answer?”

 

“I find myself rather weirdly charmed by your rough manner, god knows why. It certainly isn’t your handsome face.”

 

“Maybe it’s my sparkling personality,” said Mister Carragher, reaching out to dip Gary into a most passionate kiss.

 

 

*

 

 

“Perhaps I’ve presumed,” said Mister Redknapp, visibly fretting, “but I’ve been told you’re quite fond of the creatures and the color reminded me of your eyes.”

 

Phil looked into Mister Redknapp’s kind eyes, hands carefully cupping the miniature emerald frog, and promptly burst into tears.

 

 

*

 

 

“Don't say anything, for heaven's sake. Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces,” said Gary, staring pointedly at Mister Carragher, who stared back rudely and increased the speed at which he was knitting his nose warmer.

 

"James has no discretion in his words," said Paul. "I would say he times them ill, but it's all a question of that horrendous accent, really."

 

 

*

 

 

"You take delight in vexing me," said Nicky fretfully. "You have no compassion for my poor nerves."

 

"You mistake me, my dear," Paul rolled his eyes. "I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least."

 

"Ah, you do not know what I suffer."

 

"On the contrary. I spend most of my waking hours having to supervise the younger Neville feeding his amphibians. I know much about suffering."

 

*

 

 

"Fiddle dee dee," Nicky exclaimed, fanning himself furiously.

 

"You're in the wrong time period, dear," Scholesy said without looking up from his depressing Keats poem, the ending of which he was already predicting either the lady or the poet to visit the metaphorical farm.

 

 

*

 

 

“You are not marrying Mister Redknapp and that’s final!” screamed Mister Neville, as Phil looked on, crestfallen.

 

“That’s not your decision to make, Gary!” Phil yelled back, hand in his breast pocket, where one miniature green frog was resting soundly. “I love him!”

 

“You don’t even know him! He’s much too old for you, anyway.”

 

“He looks younger than you! And I know plenty about him! Enough to know he loves me back and that he’ll make a most spectacular husband,” said Phil, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as he gazed upon his brother’s stony facade.

 

“But his sickly disposition…” Mister Neville tried, feeling most increasingly helpless in the face of his brother’s obvious distress.

 

“I don’t care about that! I’ll carry him on my back if I have to,” said Phil, entirely sincerely. “Please, Gary?”

 

“...very well,” Mister Neville sighed, “I suppose even I cannot stand in the way of true love. I give you my blessing, though reluctantly.”

 

“Oh, Gary,” Phil said, tearing up, “everything will turn out well in the end, you’ll see!”

 

The brothers embraced awkwardly, as such displays of affections were unbecoming of proper young English gentlemen. It looked rather more like a very violent chest bump than an actual embrace, but they stepped back from it somewhat calmed.

 

They settled into their favorite armchairs, Phil with his romance novel and Mister Neville with his knitting. He’d decided to knit a pair of properly red socks, but he was somewhat inept at it, so they were rather full of holes.

 

“Maybe we could have a double wedding,” Phil remarked, missing the way Mister Neville’s shoulders tensed, “Mister Redknapp and I, and you with Mister Carragher.”

 

The knitting flew in a high arc across the room, one of the needles unfortunately nicking a life-sized portrait of Sir Alex Ferguson. Gary stared at his benevolent countenance and mumbled a prayer for his immortal soul. And then for his own, too, for good measure.

 

 

*

 

 

Lord Souness gasped, affronted. "I must point out to you, Mister Neville, that if you insist on continuing down this path, you will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us."

 

"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Gary stubbornly. "But the husband of Mister Carragher must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to his situation, that he could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine. I present to you five words, immortalised in that song I predict will one day become popular: he's too hot, hot damn."

 

This so offended Lord Souness that he nearly succeeded in tugging off his splendid moustache. "Obstinate, headstrong boy! I am ashamed of you! You are to understand, Mister Neville, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."

 

"Actually," frowned Gary, "I think you'll find that your club does that rather often."

 

"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young man without family, connections, or fortune. Who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition."

 

"As long as they do not hail from the city of Liverpool, I fail to see how anyone could have any objections," Gary chirped. "It's rather his side of the family I'm more worried about, you know. Our estate might never win anything for years."

 

 

 

*

 

_NETHERANFIELD_

_JUNE 2ND, 1813_

 

_Dearest brother!_

 

_I hope this letter finds you well, in good health and in excellent spirits._

_I must tell you most urgently the news of my husband, Mister Redknapp._

_He is by far the most wonderful, most loving, most caring man in all the land. Why, I’m looking at him right now, asleep in his favorite chair, his leg elevated and Ryanbert the frog soundly resting on his noble breast. What a heartwarming sight, I can hardly stand it to sit here and write you this letter instead of tending to him!_

_The doctor said his leg is healing well. Luckily it was a clean break. Did I tell you how it happened? He reared his horse that was about to step on a poor innocent frog and then fell off! Truly a mark of a most selfless, loving man, that would rather risk injury to himself than to any humble creature of the lord._

_I had more news for you, on the state of my amphibious family, but I must rush! Jamie is stirring in his sleep and I must welcome him to the waking world by the gaze of my most loving eyes._

_Hope Carra is doing well! Jamie sends his regards._

 

_Till we write again, I remain_

_your most devoted brother,_

 

_Phil_

  


A piece of parchment goes flying across the room to smack into the wall. Mister Carragher-Neville looks up from his embroidery.

 

“Another letter from your brother, Gary?” he asks. “With an added four pages of his notes about frogs?”

 

“Not this time,” Mister Neville-Carragher mutters, “he’s too busy tending to Lord Redknapp. Who’s broken his leg again.”

 

“Again? Hadn’t his arm just healed?”

 

“Apparently this time he fell off a horse as to avoid upsetting Phil,” Mister Neville-Carragher remarks, reaching forward for his cup of tea, only to realize, with a grimace, that it’d already gone cold.

 

“Are you certain that your brother isn’t getting a bit too physical with him? Maybe you should talk,” Mister Carragher-Neville remarks, looking concerned.

 

“Phil couldn’t hurt a fly,” Mister Neville-Carragher sighs. “Or, he would, but he’d cry afterward. No, I fear that they’re just complete bumbling buffoons.”

 

“I suppose I got lucky with the smarter brother, then?” Mister Carragher-Neville says, grinning when it gets him a reluctantly tender smile.

 

“Sometimes, you have great ideas, Mister Neville-Carragher,” says Mister Neville-Carragher.

 

“It’s Carragher-Neville,” Mister Carragher-Neville corrects him gently, pressing a kiss to soft dark hair. One gets the impression that this is an argument they have quite often, in lieu of gentler words like ‘I’m glad you’re here’ or ‘I love you’. They’re proper English gentlemen, after all.

 

“You keep telling yourself that, dear.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> R can be found [here](http://carraville.tumblr.com/) and J can be found [here](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Please join us in the madness.


End file.
